


2. Brokedown Palace

by Molly



Series: Interstitial Spaces [2]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-03
Updated: 2011-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-17 13:19:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molly/pseuds/Molly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>For every thing he fixed, another ten things failed.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	2. Brokedown Palace

**Author's Note:**

> These three stories -- Apples, Brokedown Palace, and Configuration -- were originally planned as the beginning of an ongoing series in which John and Rodney get to know each other between the moments we see on screen. Time and fandom got away from me, and I don't think I'll be continuing it; but I do think they stand pretty well on their own as one possible way the SGA team began.

"Okay," Rodney said into his mic, "light it up."

 _"Generator number three, back online."_

Beneath Rodney's hands, the hum of Atlantis changed subtly. Readings flooded the screen in front of him -- good, good, output steady, reactions stable -- and the lights in the room kicked up a few watts nearer to normal, just the way they ought to. Rodney grinned smugly, and barely resisted the urge to pat the console. "Thanks, Doctor, um," he said, and glanced up to see Major Sheppard mouthing something at him. "Thanks, Doctor Simpson. All systems go from where I'm sitting."

 _"Shall we move on to generator five?"_

"You and Peter handle it; you've taxed my brilliance enough for one day. I have better things to do than babysit minor repairs while the city falls apart around our ears. Good work." He clicked the mic off, and swiveled in his chair to look at Sheppard. "Thank you. I'm not good with names. At Area 51 we were encouraged not to use them, and in Siberia I usually couldn't pronounce them."

"No problem." Sheppard leaned in to peer at Rodney's console. "What's wrong with generator five?"

"What's wrong with everything in this place?" Rodney waved his hand at the control room. Cables ran over and under chairs and consoles, laptops cluttered every flat surface, and somebody seemed to be using the DHD panel as a mousepad. "It's not supposed to work. Our equipment isn't supposed to interface with Ancient technology, and Ancient technology isn't supposed to run off naquadah generators. We have no idea what half this stuff does, and no way to maintain a power supply steady enough to risk turning it on and finding out. The generators are clocking in at 150% of capacity, just to keep the lights on and the water running. I'm amazed we haven't set the place on fire yet."

"But on the _bright_ side..."

"What? Oh." Rodney frowned, thinking. "Well...on the bright side, it takes far less energy to float the city than to submerge it."

"Which means?"

"We're unlikely to sink," Rodney clarified.

Inexplicably, Sheppard grinned. "See, that's the power of positive thinking. I feel better already."

"Hm." Rodney tilted his head. "So do I."

Sheppard clapped Rodney on the shoulder. "Then my work here is done. I have some empty hallways to patrol, and...shouldn't you be asleep or something? It's nearly three a.m."

"Unfortunately, naquadah generators have even less respect for my circadian rhythms than my staff does." Rodney scrubbed his hands over his face. "Grodin called me out of bed two hours ago, and now I'm too awake to go back." He looked around the room -- at the red lights on too many panels, at the laptop screens spooling out information and error messages, at the weird alien screen streaming blue and green realtime systems feedback he could barely read -- and fought off a creeping sense of futility. For every thing he fixed, another ten things failed. "Anyway, there's always more to do."

Sheppard did his own survey of the control room. "I can see that. Can I help?"

"You could use your souped-up ATA expression to tell the city we're sorry, and ask forgiveness and assistance."

"You want me to _pray_ to Atlantis?"

"It wouldn't be the dumbest thing we've tried." Rodney grinned. "What do you think would happen to us atheists, if it turned out there really is a God?"

"Point," Sheppard said, "but I don't think it works that way. I'm just a glorified button-pusher; what you need is a priest."

"A pope, technically; but you're probably right." He sighed, pushed back from he control console, and stood up. "I also need coffee."

"Now, see, coffee I can do." Sheppard gestured expansively at the door nearest the cafeteria. "I'll walk with you."

"Oh." Rodney's eyebrows went up before he could stop them. "Um, okay. I thought you had to patrol."

"So, I'll patrol the cafeteria," Sheppard said, shrugging. "For, you know. Malefactors."

"Right." Rodney rolled his eyes. "Because our biggest concerns here are MRE bandits and coffee saboteurs."

"Hey, it's my duty to protect our food supply."

"Major Sheppard, I'm overworked, undercaffeinated, exhausted, and teetering at the brink of a hypoglycemic breakdown. At this moment, _I_ am the greatest danger to our food supply."

"In that case, I'm definitely coming along." Sheppard looked at Rodney through hooded eyes, and patted his P-90 with an alarming level of affection.

Rodney shook his head tiredly. "In that case, maybe I should just stay here."

 _"McKay."_ Sheppard's eyes had narrowed down to a glare, but as Rodney watched, he visibly reined himself in. His shoulders dropped, his spine relaxed back into a slouch, and when he spoke again, his voice was light and nonthreatening. "I need some chemical assistance if I'm going to stay on my feet till Bates relieves me at six, and you can barely stand up." When Rodney couldn't come up with anything to say in response, Sheppard added, "If it helps, I'm not authorized to shoot unless you go for a third cup."

"I'll...okay," Rodney said. He nodded, and busied himself for a second, ordering some papers that didn't really need it. After a moment, he straightened and glanced up. Sheppard was waiting. "Okay," Rodney said, "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Sheppard said. "Can we go get caffeinated now?"

"Well," Rodney said, drawing himself up. "If it's for the good of the mission..."

"Oh, it is," Sheppard said solemnly, with note-perfect sincerity. "Our people _need_ us."

  


* * *

  


Rodney was spared the awkwardness of polite conversation on the way to the cafeteria by three separate calls from Grodin and Simpson regarding generator five's output readings, -- characterized by Grodin as "grossly inaccurate" and by Simpson as "distinctly wonky". He could have used any one of them to get out of Sheppard's... invitation, insistence, whatever it was... but, well, he just didn't. Instead, he glanced over apologetically, keyed his headset, and worked through the problems remotely.

Sheppard didn't interrupt, and when they got to the cafeteria, he waved Rodney to a table and came back with two mugs of black coffee and packets of sugar and powdered non-dairy creamer. He pushed one mug over to Rodney, and started dumping packets into the other. Rodney snaked a few sugars while he wrapped things up with Simpson, and clicked off his mic while Sheppard was hunting down spoons. Except for a pair of technicians (ignoring each other behind laptops at a table near the exit) and the marine on midnight KP (half-asleep behind a stack of metal trays in the corner), they had the place to themselves.

"Thanks," Rodney said awkwardly when Sheppard got back to the table. He'd said thanks more times in the past hour than he usually did in a week. Sheppard was incredibly polite for an American, and unbelievably polite for a base commander in Rodney's experience. It made Rodney more polite, in self-defense. He hunched over his mug, feeling a little twitchy, and tried to think of something neutral to say. His eyes fell on Sheppard's mug. "You actually drink it like that?"

"I like a good sugar buzz with my caffeine high."

"We could probably cook you up some LSD in one of the labs, if you're that opposed to reality."

"Nah. When you've got life-sucking vampire aliens running around, a bad acid trip just seems sort of redundant."

"Hm." Rodney nodded consideringly. "I concede your point."

"I don't know about your people, but mine are pretty freaked out. It's kind of like _Salem's Lot_ meets _The Tommyknockers_ out here. And these are mostly guys who've spent the last few years fighting the Goa'uld--"

"Which are strangely reminiscent of _The Puppet Masters_ , if you ask me--"

 _"Exactly."_ Sheppard leaned back in his chair and eyed Rodney speculatively. His fingers toyed with the handle of his mug on the table between them. "Heinlein was a man ahead of his time."

"As is Stephen King, apparently."

Sheppard smiled, and Rodney surprised himself by smiling back. Some of the tension at the base of his skull started to fade; he twisted his neck until it popped, and slumped more comfortably into his chair. He drained his mug -- the coffee was vile, but hot and sweet enough that Rodney didn't care -- and set it down wistfully. Without asking, Sheppard collected it with his own and went for refills. Rodney shook his head as Sheppard walked away; what was this guy, a waiter?

"So," Sheppard when he got back. "Do you think maybe our vampire legends evolved from stories the Ancients brought to Earth when they fled this galaxy?"

"Folklore isn't really my area, but I wouldn't be surprised. Did you work at a Starbucks in college or something?"

"What...oh." Sheppard looked down at their mugs, and passed Rodney's across to him. "No, I'm just."

"Ha!" Rodney said. He grabbed a few more packets of sugar and reclaimed his spoon.

Sheppard blinked. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing at all." Rodney smiled crookedly. "You're just surprisingly decent, for a, a." He waved his hand at the uniform. "You know. What's the proper terminology? Grunt, jarhead, flyboy...I'm not up on the jargon. And you also seem fairly well-read."

"For a _flyboy_ ," Sheppard clarified, his voice taking on a dangerous tone.

"Yes, thank you. For a flyboy." Rodney sipped at his coffee carefully; it was still about a billion degrees. When Sheppard didn't say anything, Rodney looked up at him and frowned. "Oh, please, there's no need to get offended; I meant it as a compliment!"

For a moment, Sheppard just stared at him, his face frozen somewhere just shy of a glare. When he started laughing instead, he looked about as surprised as Rodney was. It was kind of a rough and creaky noise, like he hadn't oiled the mechanism recently; Rodney shook his head, grinning so hard his face hurt. After a second, he started laughing, too.

The technicians in the corner looked up from their laptops briefly, but the marine in the corner didn't even twitch.

  


* * *

  


Seventy-two hours later, Rodney's voice was hoarse, his throat hurt, and he was approximately four minutes away from just blowing the city up himself. "Okay, I'm ready topside," he said, propping an elbow on the console and resting his chin on his hand. "Peter, you have a go. Light it up."

 _"Generator number two, back online,"_ Peter said in Rodney's ear. _"You know, Doctor McKay, we don't actually need you for this. Doctor Simpson and I--"_

"You're talking while I'm reading," Rodney said. His eyes scanned the readouts coming in from generator two and the systems it supported, then skated over to the laptop monitoring three and four. "Okay, it looks like everything's holding steady for the moment. We'll need continuous monitoring--"

 _"Peter and I will monitor for now, Doctor McKay."_ Simpson's voice came through sharp and stern. _"On behalf of the morning shift, we must insist that you go to sleep right away."_

"Roger that."

Rodney's head whipped around. Sheppard's voice sounded in his left ear a split second before it registered in his right. He was leaning in the doorway, his P-90 slung over his shoulder, arms crossed over his chest. "Doctor Simpson, I'll make sure Doctor McKay shuts down for the night; you guys...do whatever it is you guys do."

 _"Thank you, Major Sheppard,"_ Peter said, echoed with unflattering speed by Simpson a second later. Two clicks followed as they closed down their side of the channel.

Rodney leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, consciously mirroring Sheppard. "I was going to turn it over to them anyway, you know. I have better things to do with my time than--"

"Babysit minor repairs. I know."

"Look, I've told you, I can't sleep when things are disintegrating all around me. My brain doesn't work like that."

"So don't sleep," Sheppard said irritably. He shoved off the door frame; upright, his posture seemed less smug and more defensive. "I was just...checking in. I was on my way to patrol the cafeteria some more, so..."

"Oh." Rodney sat up a little straighter, frowning. "And?"

"And...like I said, I was just checking in." Sheppard dropped his arms to his sides, and shoved his hands into his pockets. One corner of his mouth quirked up, then fell again so fast Rodney wasn't sure he'd seen it. "Good luck with the generators, Doctor McKay. I'll see you around." He raised one hand to give a little wave, and started to turn away.

"Sheppard, wait."

Sheppard paused, and turned back to Rodney, waiting. His face was professionally neutral, which Rodney hadn't seen before and which he found he didn't like.

"I'm sorry," Rodney said quickly. "I'm not usually in the position to -- that is to say, not professionally, anyway. Or really any other -- but that's beside the point. I didn't mean to..." Rodney stopped talking, suddenly aware that he was rambling. He raised his hands helplessly. "I'm sorry. It was kind of you to offer. That was an offer of coffee, right?"

Sheppard nodded slowly, his eyebrows climbing to a patently ridiculous height. "Yes," he said, drawing the word out to an insulting length. "It was."

Rodney nodded sharply. "I thought it was."

Sheppard looked at Rodney expectantly. Rodney looked back, eyes widening. "Um, was there..."

"For God's sake, McKay," Sheppard said. "Are you coming, or what?"

 _"Yes._ Um, yes, I am. Thank you for asking me." Rodney smiled, because it felt like the right thing to do, and after a second Sheppard smiled back, so it probably was. He dragged himself out of his chair. He'd barely moved in over three hours; every muscle in his body ached, but it felt good to unfold and stand up straight. He twisted his shoulders to loosen them up a bit, and arched his back until it cracked.

Sheppard rolled his eyes. "Are you coming _today_?"

Rodney felt his smile getting wider, and turned his head to hide it. "Today I can do," he said firmly. "Give me a minute to shut things down, and I'll walk with you."

  
.end


End file.
